13

E verything was in place, yet nothing had happened.

Late that night, wreathed in a thick November fog, Barnaby strolled along St. James and considered the state of their investigation. He'd just left White's after spending a quiet evening in the almost empty, and therefore blissfully silent, club, deeming it wiser to while away the evening there rather than in some ballroom in Penelope's wake—a deliberate ploy to evoke her impatience, leaving her curiosity unappeased, thus prodding her to consider slaking her thirst for knowledge with him. Being the intelligent lady she was, her mind would then follow the obvious path, which would lead her to the conclusion he wished her to reach.

That marrying him would be in her best interests.

That doing so was the route to attaining all the knowledge she might wish on the subject currently—courtesy of their recent interaction—occupying her mind.

He fervently hoped that subject was occupying her mind; other than their investigation—presently stalled—it was the only consideration in his.

Even that—their lack of forward momentum in finding the missing boys—was likely to work in his favor. Stokes and Griselda had distributed the notices, but they'd yet to elicit any response. As for the five names on Stokes's original list, they'd confirmed that Slater and Watts were, if not leading entirely blameless lives, at least not in possession of extraneous boys.

Which left Hornby, Grimsby, and Hughes as their best candidates for the schoolmaster involved, but no avenue had yet yielded any clue as to the latter two's whereabouts.

Otherwise, the trap they'd set in Black Lion Yard two days ago remained primed, but as of this evening, unsprung.

And neither he nor Penelope had managed to think of anything more they could reasonably do to find the missing boys.

So they were waiting.

Patience, he suspected, wasn't her strong suit; it was perfectly possible—even likely—that starved of progress on one front, she would turn her energies toward a different goal.

The notion of said energies being his to guide sent a thrill of expectation through him—something he hadn't felt in a very long time, not since he'd been a green youth.

And perhaps not even then.

Smiling to himself, he turned into Jermyn Street. Swinging his cane, he walked on, ignoring the ever-thickening fog.

The issue of marriage was one he'd avoided, but not because he had any intrinsic dislike or distrust of the state. If truth be known the opposite was true; as the years had rolled by and he'd seen his friends marry, seen the depths of their happiness in their shared lives, he'd grown envious. Yet still he'd been convinced that marriage was not for him, because he'd never met a tonnish female likely to—or even able to—cope with his vocation, his passion for criminal investigations.

Penelope was the sole exception, the lady who broke every rule. She wouldn't just acquiesce to his investigating, she'd actively encourage him. And her intellect was such that, against all the odds, he was looking forward to sharing cases with her—listening to her opinions and suggestions, discussing villains and their traits.

His necessary first step toward what he now saw as his most desirable future was to secure Penelope's hand in marriage. That her brother, Luc, and her family, would find his suit acceptable he had no real doubt; the third son of an earl was a perfectly acceptable match for the daughter of a viscount, and his status and fortune were nothing to sneer at. Gaining her agreement was the only hurdle, and if his stoking of her curiosity and impatience was playing out as planned…

Smiling confidently, he twirled his cane. He fully expected her to indicate some interest very soon. He rather thought he should call on her tomorrow.

A discreet black town carriage stood outside the door before his. He noticed it, but pointedly didn't glance that way; he wondered who Elliard, his neighbor, was entertaining that night.

His mind filled with visions of entertaining Penelope. Soon, he assured himself. Very soon. Smiling even more broadly, he swung up the steps to his door, fishing in his waistcoat pocket for his latchkey, glancing down as he did.

Behind him, he heard the black carriage's harness jingle, then the horses' hooves started to clop, the carriage rolling along the street…

He froze, premonition snaking down his spine.

He hadn't seen or heard anyone getting into or out of the carriage, no door shutting—why was it suddenly leaving?

He started to turn—in the same instant sensed the onrush of an assault. Whirling, he saw a cloaked figure rushing up the steps, a…baton?…in one hand.

His brain froze, unable to reconcile what he was seeing. The figure was short, and the cloak covered skirts. And there was a glint of gold beneath the hood, at eye level.

In that split second he recognized his assailant, registered that she'd come from the carriage that had pulled away. He glanced at the departing carriage—then saw, too late, the cosh she raised.

She hit him on the forehead.

Not all that hard, yet enough to make him blink and fall back a step—he half staggered and fetched up against the wall.

Absolutely stunned. Speechless, he stared at her.

She grabbed his coat—apparently mistakenly thinking she'd incapacitated him sufficiently that she needed to stop him falling down.

If he fell at all, it would be from sheer, utter disbelief.

What the devil was she doing?

He blinked again. She tucked the cosh away beneath her cloak, then peered into his face. Apparently reassured he was still compos mentis, she hissed, "Play along!"

What the hell was her script?

One hand still clenched in his coat, she reached out and hammered on his door.

He wondered if he should point out that his latchkey was in his hand, but decided against it. He assumed he was supposed to be incapacitated, so slumped against the wall, eyes half closed.

It wasn't all that hard to summon a pained frown. He could feel a heated throb where she'd hit him; he suspected she'd left a bruise.

Penelope all but jigged with impatience. What was taking his damned man so long?

Then she heard footsteps; a second later, the door opened.

She looked at Barnaby. "Help me! Quickly!" She glanced behind her, down the empty street. "They might come back."

The man frowned. "Who might—" Then he saw Barnaby slumped against the wall. "Oh, my goodness!"

"Exactly." Penelope grabbed Barnaby's arm and dragged it across her shoulders. Slipping her other arm around his waist, she hauled him away from the wall.

She staggered, and only just managed to right herself, and him, before toppling backward down the steps. Lord, he was heavy!

But she could hardly complain when he was doing exactly as she'd asked.

She weaved for an instant before his man—Mostyn, that was it—came to his startled senses and seized his semicomatose master from the other side.

"There now—gently." Mostyn helped her shuffle Barnaby through the open door. "Oh, my heavens!" He stopped, staring at the red mark on Barnaby's forehead.

Penelope cursed under her breath; the man was an old woman! "Shut the door and help me get him upstairs."

She was no longer so certain she hadn't truly injured him; he was leaning very heavily on her. She told herself she hadn't swung the cosh all that hard, but anxiety started to churn in her stomach.

Mostyn rushed to close the door, then reappeared to take Barnaby's other arm.

Barnaby moaned as they headed for the stairs—far too realistically for her peace of mind.

Damn! She had hurt him. Guilt joined the anxiety in a nauseating mix.

"But what happened?" Mostyn asked as they started up the stairs.

She had her story ready. "I convinced him to go out searching for our villains. They waylaid us not far away and coshed him over the head. He took a fearful knock—see the bruise?"

That was all it took; Mostyn tut-tutted and carried on about the dangers his master never seemed to have a care for, how he'd often warned him that something terrible would one day come of his investigating…and much more in that vein until Penelope was extremely sorry she'd ever thought up such a tale—adding lashings of more guilt to that already swirling through her. She had to bite her tongue against the urge to caustically defend Barnaby; she had to remember her own role in this drama—that of female accomplice seriously concerned for her white knight's health.

She literally gave thanks when they reached the top of the steep single flight, and could lurch toward, then through, the doorway leading into a sizable room. It took up most of the first floor—a very large bedroom, with a very large bed, plus a small sitting area with a desk and a comfortable armchair angled before the hearth. The fire was cheerily burning, throwing heat and light through the room. A dressing room opened to one side; she glimpsed a bathing chamber beyond.

A pair of tallboys stood against opposing walls, and matching side tables flanked the bed, but it was the bed itself that dominated the room—and fixed her attention.

A four-poster in dark wood with barley-sugar poles, it was hung with figured damask the color of his eyes. The curtains were looped back with tasseled golden cords, revealing a massive expanse of blue satin coverlet, with gold-silk-encased pillows forming a small mountain against the headboard.

In unspoken accord, she and Mostyn teetered toward the bed. Mostyn managed to steer Barnaby—who emitted another dreadful groan—until his back was propped against the nearest pole.

"Miss—if you can steady him there for a moment, I'll ready the bed."

Mostyn warily took his hands from Barnaby, then dove for the head of the bed, but before he could grasp the coverlet and drag it down, Barnaby groaned again, and staggered sideways.

"Oh!" Penelope tried desperately to hold him upright—but then he toppled backward, nearly jerking her off her feet and onto the bed with him as he sprawled on his back across the mattress; it was only because she lost her grip on his coat that she managed to stay on her feet.

Eyes still closed, he winced, then moaned. Weakly, he raised a hand to his head.

Penelope dived to catch his hand. "No—don't touch it. Just lie there and let us get you out of your coat."

He was either an excellent actor, or he really was in pain—she had no idea which.

Thrown entirely off balance, Mostyn fussed and fretted. Penelope shrugged out of her cloak and laid it aside, then rustled back to the bed. Between them, they managed to ease the heavy overcoat off Barnaby's shoulders. The coat beneath, one of Shultz's creations, proved a great deal more difficult to remove; Mostyn had to support Barnaby, holding him upright, while Penelope clambered onto the bed behind him and tugged the tight-fitting garment free.

She shuffled quickly aside as Mostyn let Barnaby back down—to the accompaniment of another excoriating groan.

His waistcoat and cravat were much easier to deal with; she dispensed with those, tugging both free, while Mostyn removed his shoes and stockings.

The instant Mostyn stood again, she snapped, "Fetch some cold water and a cloth."

Mostyn hesitated, but the quite genuine concern ringing in her voice had him moving to the dressing room door. "I'll just be a moment."

Penelope glanced after him; he passed through to the bathing chamber beyond, but with both doors open she didn't dare ask Barnaby if his head really hurt that much, or if he was acting.

The guilt that he might not be, that she really had coshed him harder than she'd intended, contrarily made it easier, when Mostyn returned, to put the next stage of her plan into action.

Taking the basin from him, she set it on one bedside table, briskly wrung out the cloth, then leaned over Barnaby and applied the compress gently to the reddened patch on his wide forehead. The spot wasn't that raised or contused; it was probably just as well she was covering it, especially as Mostyn had moved around the bed to light the candelabra on the other bedside table. The candles flared, then steadied, spilling light over Barnaby as he lay sprawled across the bed.

Without looking directly at Mostyn, she said, "You may go."

It took a moment for her words to penetrate, then he stared at her, stupefied. "I can't do that! It wouldn't be proper."

Slowly, she lifted her gaze and stared—down her nose—at him. "My dear good man." She'd borrowed both words and tone from Lady Osbaldestone, a lady whose ability to lord it over the opposite sex was legendary; she couldn't do better than to borrow from a master. "I do hope"—she kept her voice low, yet her tone was incisive—"that you're not about to suggest there is anything im proper in my tending to Mr. Adair in his current injured state, especially as it was in response to a request of mine—indeed, in protecting me—that he was injured?"

Mostyn blinked, frowned.

Before he had a chance to gather any wits, she continued in the same, chilly, impossibly superior tone, "I have two adult brothers, and have tended their hurts often enough." An outright lie; both were much older than she. "I have lived more than twenty-eight years in the haut ton, and never have I heard it sugggested that tending an injured gentleman in a state of incapacitation was in any way considered fast."

Having lied once, she saw no reason not to compound the sin; Mostyn couldn't possibly know how old she was.

Returning her attention to her patient—who had remained silent throughout—she struggled to recall useful terms Mrs. Keggs employed in similar situations, which occurred all too frequently at the Foundling House. "It's very likely he has a concussion."

Alarm flared in Mostyn's eyes. "Mulled wine! My mentor always swore by it." He rushed for the door.

"No." Penelope raised her head and frowned. "He most certainly shouldn't have any hot drinks—and certainly not alcohol. Not wine or brandy. Which shows how much you know." With every evidence of disgust, she waved him away. "I'll sit and watch over him, and keep a cold compress on his injury. When he wakes, I'll ring for you."

"But—" Wide-eyed, Mostyn looked from her to his comatose master.

Penelope sighed, dropped the cloth in the basin, then advanced determinedly on Mostyn—who naturally backed away. "I have no time for this discussion—I need to tend to your master."

She continued to march forward until Mostyn's back hit the door. Halting, planting her hands on her hips, she glared, and lowered her voice to an acid whisper. "All this noise is no doubt hurting his poor head. Now begone!"

Dramatically she pointed to the door.

Mostyn goggled at her, swallowed, cast a last glance at the figure on the bed, then turned, opened the door, and slid through.

He closed it softly behind him.

Disinclined to take chances, Penelope stepped closer and pressed her ear to the panels. She waited until she heard Mostyn's footsteps descending the stairs, then she slid the bolt on the door.

On a huge sigh, she closed her eyes for an instant and leaned her forehead against the panels.

The sound of rustling reached her.

Opening her eyes, turning, she saw Barnaby propped up against the pillows. There was no sign of vagueness in the blue eyes that pinned her.

"What," he asked, "is this all about?"

His diction was precise—no slurring. The relief that swamped her was disconcertingly intense. A spontaneous, delighted smile curving her lips, she started back to the bed. "Good! You aren't really hurt."

He snorted. "After that little tap on the head?"

She grinned even more. "I should have known your skull would be too thick for me to seriously dent it."

"Perhaps, but what—" Barnaby didn't get a chance to finish his question before she answered it.

She'd bounced up to the bed; as he spoke, she bounced onto the coverlet, flung herself into his arms, and kissed him.

Which was all very nice, but he was excruciatingly aware that they were in his bedroom, on his bed—and she'd locked the door. Compounding the problem, it was the middle of the night, and from all he'd witnessed, salvation in the form of Mostyn was unlikely to eventuate anytime soon.

Certainly not soon enough.

Shifting in his arms, she pressed closer, wordlessly inviting. Unable to deny her, he kissed her back; closing his hands about her shoulders, he slid into the warm cavern of her offered mouth and feasted, feeding his senses and hers, letting the pleasure unfold.

She was wearing dark green silk, a conservative, severe gown with black buttons marching from the raised waist to her throat, her long slender arms tightly encased, with even tinier black buttons at her wrists. The semifull skirts thoroughly camouflaged her lower limbs.

With her hair looped back tightly in a sleek chignon, her spectacles perched on her nose, she should have looked forbidding.

Instead, as ever, she looked like forbidden fruit.

The dark silk made her skin glow, porcelain fine, pearlescent pale. His hands moved over her back, consciously possessive; the silk rustled dryly, a sensual sound, one suggesting surrender.

His or hers—he suddenly wasn't sure.

It took effort to draw back from the kiss—in which she'd somehow managed to ensnare him. "Penelope…"

Hugely satisfied, she drew back enough to smile beatifically at him, simultaneously relaxing against him, snuggling her breasts against his chest. "I came to inform you that I've made a decision."

"I see." Looking into her dark eyes, aglow with an enthusiasm—an energy—the like of which he hadn't before seen, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, yet felt forced to ask, "What decision?"

She held his gaze, her ripe, luscious lips gently smiling. "The last time we spoke on personal matters, you made an offer—do you recall?"

"I recall very well." His voice sounded gravelly even to his ears.

Her distracting smile deepened. "You said if I wanted to know more, you'd happily teach me, provided I was eager and willing to learn." Head tilting, she studied him, her dark eyes amused; she was enjoying the moment—the culmination of what had clearly been a plan. "I'm here to tell you that I'm both eager and willing—I'm here to ask you to teach me more."

The inevitable effect of her words spread through him, but…studying her eyes, her pleased and undeniably eager expression, he confirmed she had indeed skipped a stone or two on his intended path. Agreeing to marry him, for instance.

Of course, he hadn't yet offered for her hand.

Before he could find words to seize the moment, she did.

"I realize a lady of my station is supposed to remain ignorant of such things until she weds, but as I'm firmly and ineradicably op posed to marriage, I had thought I would be condemned to ignorance—which of course isn't at all to my taste. Not on any subject. Which is why I'm so grateful for your offer."

Her expression was one of confident expectation that he would fall in with her plan and educate her ignorance.

His outward expression mild, inwardly he swore. He should have stipulated that she had to marry him, or at least agree to marry him, first—but he hadn't. Could he now renege, renegotiate his offer?

Not easily. She'd told him she wasn't looking for marriage, but… firmly and ineradicably opposed ?

His hands stroked up and down her back, gently soothing—him. Releasing her, putting distance between them wasn't possible; now he had his hands on her, he couldn't get them off. She lay more or less on him; his body craved her warmth, the sensation of her softness, the subtle and arousing assurance of her willingness.

Mentally scrambling, he summoned a mildly intrigued expression, as if he were merely curious about her stance. "Why are you so set against marriage? I thought it was what all young ladies strive for."

Her lips set; she shook her head decisively. "Not me. Just think"—leaning more heavily on his chest, her hip rolling provocatively across his, she freed one hand to gesture—"what allure could marriage possibly hold for me?"

His body, hard and aching from the moment she'd flung herself into his arms, and now throbbing with her hip so warmly wedged against his groin, was only too willing to demonstrate.

But she continued, "What could marriage offer me in compensation for its inevitable cost?"

He frowned. "Cost?"

She smiled, cynical and wry. "My independence. My ability to live my life as I choose, rather than as a husband would prefer." She looked into his eyes. "What gentleman of our class would allow me to freely visit the slums and stews after we were wed?"

He held her gaze steadily—and couldn't answer.

Her tight smile dissolved into one of amusement. She patted his chest. "Don't give yourself a brain sprain—there is no answer. No gentleman who wed me would allow me to do what I feel I must, would allow me to pursue what I see as my life's work. Without that work, what satisfaction would I have? Therefore I will have no wedding."

He looked into her dark eyes, and knew he was going to change her mind. Unfortunately, stating that goal at this time would instantly ensure his failure.

"I…see." He forced himself to nod. "I see your point." And he did; rationally, logically, her stance made sense.

It just simply couldn't be. Couldn't continue.

Because he needed her as his wife.

Having her sprawled over him, firm svelte curves a delectable present wrapped in dark green silk, was steadily eroding his capacity to think. Regardless, quite obviously argument wasn't going to save him tonight.

He'd made an offer to teach her more about desire; now she'd taken him up on it, he couldn't draw back. If he did, she wouldn't trust him. No matter what explanation he conjured, she'd feel slighted and rejected; she'd pull back from him, and never let him near her again.

If he mentioned marriage, she'd put up walls and lock him out—and that he couldn't accept. Couldn't allow to happen.

Even worse—much more horrifying still—was the risk that now he'd encouraged it, if he didn't slake her thirst for knowledge in this sphere, she would find someone else—some other man—who would.

Some cad.

Instead of him.

That definitely wasn't going to happen.

She was watching him, her eagerness apparent in her eyes, her expression; as he studied it, she tilted her head, arched her brows. "Well?"

The word was unexpectedly sultry, seductive, and provocative—question, challenge, and sheer temptation rolled into one syllable.

He felt it, and the certainty of what he and she were about to do, here in his bed, slide through his consciousness and invade his body, until every muscle seemed to thrum with heat.

Letting his lips slowly curve, his gaze locked in the darkness of hers, he raised a hand to her face and lifted her spectacles from her nose, easing the earpieces free of her hair. Knowing the gesture was a surrender. Sensing it in his bones. "How much can you see without them?"

She blinked, smiled, and scanned his face. "I can see things within five feet quite reasonably, although the detail isn't always as fine as I'd like. Farther away becomes progressively fuzzy."

"In that case…" Extending his arm, he set the spectacles on the bedside table. "You won't need these."

She frowned. "Are you sure?"

Looking back at her, he cocked a brow. "Who's teaching whom here?"

She laughed. Bracing her hands on his chest, she tensed to push up and move off him.

His hands on her back, he held her to him, rolled, trapping her beneath him, bent his head and kissed her startled "Oh!" from her lips, then sank into the welcoming warmth of her mouth.

Sank into her.

The immediate response of every muscle he possessed to the sensation of having her beneath him was intense, revealing—and ravenous enough to have him mentally holding his breath while he wrestled his instincts back under his control.

She might have invited him to make love to her—she hadn't invited him to ravish her. A distinction his civilized brain understood, but which his more primitive side—the one she called forth—wasn't so interested in.

Inwardly grim, he reined that less civilized self in; only once he felt confident he had it contained did he allow his hands to move. To slide from beneath her, to grasp her waist, tensing…letting his possessiveness taste that much, savor the fact that she was there, committed, his to take.

It was a heady moment; in response, he pressed her lips wide and deepened the kiss, plundering in a languid, leisurely fashion that was a promise of intimacies to come.

Having accepted her script—having once more, entirely unexpectedly, found himself following rather than leading—he had no lingering reservations; he would do as she asked, take the lead and show her more, and introduce her to passion.

To the heat that swelled beneath his hand as he slid it in one slow heavy stroke from her waist, up her silk-clad side, to the swell of her breast.

Penelope gasped through the kiss; he'd caressed her in similar fashion before, yet this time, with the certainty that he wouldn't stop with just the caress blazoned in her mind, his touch seemed more potent, infinitely more powerful.

Every touch was a promise, every sweep of his palm and fingers both an exploration and a claiming.

A delight. Warmth welled, and spilled through her. More definite heat—flames filled with pleasure—flared, grew, and raced through her. Her breasts were soon aching, too tight for the ungiving confinement of silk, her tightly ruched nipples points of sharp delight.

She would have spoken, mentioned her discomfort, but with his mouth locked over hers, with his tongue evocatively tangling with hers, she had neither the chance, the ability, nor the wits to form words.

Words—reasons, rationality, and logic—no longer seemed relevant, not in this world he'd waltzed her into, a world where desire had so swiftly risen she thought she could taste it—sharp, addictive. Compelling.

Trapped under his weight, she pressed her aching flesh into his palm, softly moaned.

He responded, but with an unhurried calm, a lack of urgency that had her own spiraling. Pressing one hand between them, he deftly slipped the buttons closing her bodice free, starting from her throat and slowly progressing down…until her bodice gaped and the pressure on her breasts eased.

The loss of discomfiting pressure perversely left her hungry for more, for something more—then he pressed aside the loose halves of her bodice, and through the delicate translucency of her silk chemise, cupped her breast.

She gasped, clung—to the kiss, to him. Her hands had, as usual, locked at his nape. As he weighed, then stroked, then gently kneaded, her hands drifted to his shoulders and gripped. When he brushed his thumb across her engorged nipple, she caught her breath, fingertips sinking deep.

He played, tested, tortured her senses—explored and learned of her, of her responses. Taught her, showed her, what she liked, how much delight could flow from just a simple touch, albeit an illicit one.

His other hand had remained at her waist. Anchoring her, holding her. Now, once more pressing beneath her, it slid down, over her hip, until his large palm cradled her bottom, then slowly cruised over it, assessing, not yet possessing but with the promise that would come. His weight above her, on her, held her down, bore her down, pressing her bottom into that questing hand. Even through the layers of her skirts and petticoats, his touch sent heat, damp and somehow urgent, flushing beneath her skin.

A strange restlessness grew and spread within her. Like the opening of a well, a void, a hunger.

She could taste desire in his kiss, feel it in his touch. Was this passion, rising in response?

Raising his head, breaking their kiss, he looked down at her. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the cerulean blue intense. Then his lips curved in a dangerous smile, and he rolled, taking her with him.

She gasped, grabbed his shoulders, went to push up when he settled on his back, propped high on the pillows, but the weight of his arm across her spine held her to him. Drew her to him so his lips could capture hers again, so he could lure her senses once more into the kiss.

Once she was caught, the cage of his arms eased. Her new position ruffled her senses, leaving them skittering with unaccustomed awareness. Her skirts had rucked up as they'd turned; while there was still silk between them—between her thighs and the sides of his hard body—at the back her skirts had flared out and now lay spread across his legs, leaving her bottom unshielded from the fabric of his trousers, if she were silly enough—wanton enough—to sit back.

For the moment she was content to allow her senses time to grow used to the unexpected position, to the solid, muscled heat of him between her thighs, to the hardness against which the sensitive inner faces of her thighs were pressed.

Then she felt his fingers swiftly undoing the laces down her back.

Barnaby didn't stop until the laces were all undone and the back of her gown lay open to her hips. He let his hands cruise beneath the material, easing it aside, once again finding the filmy silk of her chemise screening her body from his touch.

Impatience rose through him; he tamped it down. Drawing back from the kiss, he urged her up. Reaching down, he drew her knees higher, against his sides, so when she placed her hands on his chest and pushed up, she was straddling him.

Given he was lying against the pillows, propped high, not flat, that left her sitting across his waist, her breasts level with his face.

Exactly where he wanted them.

His lips curved in anticipation as he raised his hands and pushed the shoulders of her gown off and down.

As her sleeves slid down her arms, trapping them, Penelope looked down at his face. He wasn't looking at hers, but at what he'd revealed. His expression was set but rather blank, as if he were holding a great deal within. Controlled. In control. Of himself as well as her. But then she glimpsed his eyes, and the heat—the lust—in them, firing the blue, shocked, delighted, and warmed her.

Some part of her was astonished she didn't feel the slightest stirring of modesty. Quite the opposite. She wanted this, knew she did, and was determined to savor every moment, no matter how shocking.

As she drank in the qualities blazing in his gaze as it slid over the swells of her still partially screened breasts, over the dips, the hollows, the peaks, she felt a subtle sense of triumph grow.

She'd felt something similar before with him—a sense of power that she, her body, could so ensnare him. So capture and hold his attention to the exclusion of all else. Even when his hands shifted and he caught her wrist to slip loose the tiny buttons closing her sleeves, his gaze didn't waver.

Swiftly, wordlessly, he completed the task, then drew the sleeves free of her hands. She drew them clear, then returned her palms once more to his shoulders. As her bodice subsided with a soft rustle in loose folds about her waist, she waited, pleasantly tense with anticipation, to see what next he would do.

She wasn't entirely surprised when he reached for the trailing ends of the bow that held the gathered neckline of her fine chemise closed.

Barnaby tested the tiny cord of flattened silk, rolling it between his fingertips. He'd wondered what she wore beneath her gowns—had fantasized, and she hadn't disappointed.

The chemise was severely simple in style, not a frill or furbelow in sight. But the material was the most fabulously fine, gossamer-weight silk he'd ever encountered; diaphanous, nearly translucent, it whispered over her skin like a lover's caress, bold, wanton, seductive.

The innate sensuality he'd sensed in her from the first was clearly real, no fantasy. The observation racked the tension in his muscles, already taut, one notch more, to a higher degree of readiness.

That was something he didn't truly need; he was already battling impulses more intense, more carnally explicit, than he'd ever experienced. He assumed it was because she was a virgin, that he was the first to see her like this, the first to ever have her, that fueled such rampant, primitive desires.

He drew in a long breath, tightened his grip on a control that was more tenuous than he liked, then raised both hands to her breasts. In worship.

Neither large nor small, they seemed shaped for his palms, for him.

His hands stroked, slowly, over the silk, fondling, caressing. Lightly stroking, circling her peaked nipples until she closed her eyes and shifted, restless, upon him.

He took his time, and savored, noting the rising tension that bowed her spine, that fractured her breathing and had her pressing forward, seeking…just one more tantalizing touch.

Her eyes were closed, a line of concentration etched between her brows as she drank in every tiny sensation. Lips curving in a predatory smile, he leaned forward, and licked.

She gasped, swayed, but didn't open her eyes.

The sound sank to his soul. He licked again, then laved the tight bud until her fingertips sank deep in desperation. Only then did he lean closer yet and take the throbbing flesh into his mouth, and suckle.

She moaned, the sound half trapped in her throat; again the simple sound drove him on, to both appease and heighten the ache he'd created. To drive her wild.

Gasping, mentally reeling, Penelope wasn't sure how much more sensation she could bear. He continued feasting at her breasts; screened though they were by her chemise, the lancing pleasure his hot, wet mouth, his raspy tongue pressed on her struck deep, sending heat flaring through her, outward to her fingertips, down to pool low between her thighs.

Until she felt hot, damp, and swollen there, too, until the flesh between her thighs ached and throbbed.

Again, he seemed to know. His hands had left her breasts, fastening about her waist to hold her steady as he gorged on the swollen peaks; now those steadying hands eased their grip, then one after the other pushed up her skirts and petticoats enough to slide beneath.

And grip her bare hips, then slide, slowly, down her naked thighs.

Then, even more slowly, back up.

Courtesy of her position, he could fondle as he wished. He continued to minister to her breasts, pressing unrelenting, distracting delight upon her, keeping her teetering on her knees so she had to grip his shoulders to remain steady.

Although her eyes were closed, as his caresses grew more explicit beneath her skirts, as his long, elegant, too-knowing fingers slipped between her thighs and stroked—and she quivered—she felt the touch of his gaze, burning and hot, searing over her face, then falling to her heaving breasts.

Then he took the peak of one breast into his mouth again, and suckled—more fiercely. She cried out, a short, sharp gasp of pleasure; head back, spine tight, she tried desperately to fill her lungs—failed as she felt his fingers slide through the slickness between her thighs, and slowly, inexorably, penetrate her body.

He eased one finger deep inside her, then stroked. Withdrew to caress again, to touch again, to cup again, then penetrate and stroke once more.

She gasped as sensation blossomed anew, on a wholly different plane. One where the heat expanded, yearning growing within it, tangled and twined, desire and passion seamlessly melding, the flames of one and the heat of the other building to a conflagration.

One he orchestrated.

He gave her just so much, stoking the fires high, only to ease her back from combustion. From the point beyond which she knew she would simply be consumed and die.

Again and again, he took her to the edge; each time the surge of heat increased and battered at her senses. At her mind.

At her will.

Forcing open her eyes, from beneath her heavy lids she glanced down—at him as he suckled at her breast. What she saw in his face was so stark, it shook her mind free for one brief moment of lucidity—to wonder if she knew what she was doing, if she truly understood what she'd invited.

That he wanted her, desired her, she had absolutely no doubt, but that he wanted her to desire him, to want him with the same raw urgency that she sensed building within him, was a revelation.

She suddenly understood the purpose behind his repetitive stimulation, each time taking her senses to new heights, opening her desires to new depths of need.

On the thought, his hand shifted between her thighs and he pressed, worked a second finger in alongside the first, stretching her—blatantly readying her.

She gasped, clung, eyes again shut tight as the world as she knew it grew brighter, tighter, edged by light—but then he drew his fingers from her.

Leaving her with the strangest sensation of hanging in midair.

Before she could return to reality and protest, his hands and mouth left her entirely, then she felt him bunching up her gown.

"Time to get this off."

His voice was so gravelly it took a moment for her to make out the words. She wasn't much help; it was all she could do to follow directions and let him draw the gown off over her head.

He swiftly undid the ties of her petticoats, then they followed her gown—disappearing somewhere off the bed, flung into darkness.

Leaving her on her knees, straddling his waist, clad only in the insubstantial film of her chemise.

The golden light of the candles washed over her; looking, ravenously drinking in every curve, every quintessentially feminine line, Barnaby set his jaw against the urge to rip the delicate material from her.

He wanted— burned with a want beyond anything he'd ever known. If he didn't have her soon…but she was a virgin; he had to go slowly. Gently. Even if slow and gentle were no longer in his repertoire, not, apparently, when it came to her.

Greedy, rapacious, primitive need clawed his gut, filled his veins.

It was all he could do to, with one hand, reach out and grasp the silken tie he'd earlier fingered, and tug—not rip—just enough to unravel the bow.

"This goes, too."

He could barely recognize his voice, it seemed to come from so deep within him. From the self he kept buried, that she drew forth.

Why she called so unerringly to that more primitive side of him he didn't know; he only knew that she did, that he had to somehow cope with that more primal, raw-emotioned male presence that, ever since he'd got his hands on her, had slowly infused his body and brain.

Unexpectedly, her eyes locked with his. Dark, unfathomable, rich, her eyes promised and lured…then she shifted upon him, arms crossing, hands reaching for the hem of the chemise…

In one fluid movement, she drew it up, over her head, then, her eyes once more locking with his, she flung the garment away.

He felt more than heard a low growl, realized it was reverberating in his throat.

Moving without conscious thought, his hands grasped her waist, gripped.

It took a massive effort but he set his jaw, hauled back on the reins, and halted his headlong rush to completion. Cut off—denied—the impulse to lift her, slip the buttons on his trouser flap, and release his straining erection so he could pull her down and sink it deep between her thighs.

Later, he promised his primitive self.

Without doubt, that primitive self growled.

Seething, it subsided, once again under his control—allowing him to roll them back to where they'd started, with her on her back beneath him.

But this time she was naked.

Gloriously bare.

All of him—his sophisticated self in complete agreement with his more primitive side—rejoiced. Mentally licked his lips.

He bent his head and kissed her, deeply, thoroughly, reacquainting himself with the wonders of her mouth—ensuring on the way that she was acquiescent, unable to argue, even to talk.

Or so it should have been, but when he drew back and lifted his head, his next goal shining like a beacon through the sensual fog wreathing his mind, he realized she was wriggling, tugging…

He blinked and focused on her. She saw, and frowned. "Your shirt."

"What about it?"

She nearly glared. "I'm naked—and you're not. I want…you to be."

He nearly glared back, but…he did want her to want precisely that. Biting off a muttered curse, he rolled off her; it took exactly ten seconds for him to rid himself of his shirt and trousers.

Then he rolled back, and pinned her.

He looked down into her eyes. "Satisfied?"

Her eyes had grown wide. He wasn't sure how much she'd glimpsed, but that look suggested she'd seen enough. "Ah…" Her voice nearly failed. She cleared her throat. "I suppose…"

The throaty whisper sawed at his control.

"Don't think about it," he growled, and kissed her again. Deeper, more ravenously, letting his more forceful, ruthless instincts free enough to ensure that this time when he lifted his head, she was in no condition to distract him again.

He hadn't counted on her hands. On her touch.

How such small, fragile feminine hands could exert such power over him he had no clue, but from gripping his sides, as he drew back they skated forward, over his chest—and all he could do was close his eyes and shudder.

And wait, suddenly caught on the sharp hook of expectation, as she spread her fingers and explored, pressing through the wiry hairs to trace the muscle bands, tentatively stroking the flat discs of his nipples before sliding lower, pressing over the ridges of his abdomen—as if she were enthralled.

He was in thrall, effortlessly held immobile as she delicately explored—and razed his control. Cindered it, until only a frazzled strand remained; desperate, he cracked open his lids and looked into her face—saw the fascination etched in her expression, the deepening glow in her eyes.

Fascination, enthrallment, sensual capture—they seemed to affect each other in the same way. To the same degree.

Very possibly in the same vein, to the same end, the same consuming, all-encompassing passion.

The realization shredded what little control he had left; as his more primitive instincts slipped past his guard and insidiously wreathed through him, he groaned, surrendered. Lowering his head, he kissed her again.

Voraciously, as his true nature desired.

Hungrily, as if she were his only succor, the only sweetness that would slake his desires.

He plunged into her mouth and took—and she gave. Far from retreating in the face of his too-aggressive engagement, she eagerly met him, ardently fed him, and—unbelievably—urged him on.

When he next raised his head, it was reeling, filled with the scent, the taste, of her.

Lips parted, she was panting when he edged lower in the bed to sample her breasts again. More aggressively, more fiercely. More possessively.

She permitted it, glorying even while fighting to master the sensations he pressed on her—fighting, he knew, for a degree of control he knew better than to let her seize.

When a soft moan escaped her, when her clenched fingers slackened in his curls, he knew he was safe.

He moved lower still, trailing his lips down the center of her body.

His tongue delved into her navel; Penelope gasped and clutched his head again, too rocked by the novel sensation to even think. Forming thoughts—coherent ones—was far beyond her. Her wits were overrun. He'd used sensation to completely overwhelm them.

All she had left to her was feeling. The most glorious panoply of cresting sensations that built and crashed over her, then washed through her in waves.

Delicious, illicit, dangerous perhaps, yet without thought or reservation she gave herself over to all he offered, all he wished; she'd wanted to know and he was teaching her—more than she'd ever dreamed.

He moved lower still, his hard body sliding down between her legs, forcing her knees apart so he could lie comfortably; she accommodated him without thought. Hot, openmouthed kisses punctuated with gentle nips peppered her stomach; she squirmed, the hot ache inside flickering and flaring.

The sensation of his skin sliding against hers was a curious, surprising, distracting delight. Tougher and rougher, dusted with crinkly abrading hair, stretched over flesh and muscle much harder than her own, his skin played against hers, in comparison so soft and delicate, a primal physical manifestation of his maleness and her femaleness—and the elemental contrasts between.

His lips slid to the crease between thigh and torso, refocusing her attention. With the tip of his tongue, he traced inward, a hot line like an arrow leading to…

She inwardly frowned. What…?

His "what next" had her swallowing a shriek.

At the second, more intrusive brush of his lips over her curls, she struggled, then tried to grab his shoulders, but his arm across her waist held her back, down—while his other hand grasped one thigh just above the knee and moved it aside…

Opening her so he could look at her there.

Sheer shock held her immobile, her gaze locked on his face—on what she could read in the hard, angular planes. What she could see…heaven help her.

Then he bent his head, and set his lips to her flesh.

On a breathless gasp, she shrieked his name, tried desperately to twist away, failed, grabbed his head, fingers locking in his hair, felt her entire body jolt as the sensation of him kissing, then licking—and then, oh God, sucking —raced like wildfire through her, a roaring conflagration that melted her nerves and left her a molten puddle of need.

Of hunger burning. Under her skin, through her veins, deep in her body.

She lay back on a moan. Eyes closed, she had no choice but to lie there and let him show her what she'd wished to know—to let the sensations ride her, let them fill her mind and overload her senses.

Let him, and them, sweep her away.

To where desire ruled and passion held sway, to where nothing mattered beyond their heat, and the rapacious, ravenous need that flowed in its wake.

His tongue lapped, stroked, his lips caressed, and the heat within her coalesced. With every touch, the fire burned brighter. Tighter. More intense.

Until it became her all, the one thing that in that instant mattered.

A true consuming. A real surrender.

But the fiery tension only grew more intense. Until she couldn't breathe. Until the strands of desire, all fire and heat, wrapped about her so tightly she felt she'd implode.

Then with his tongue he mimicked what he'd earlier done with his finger, a slow, languid penetration and retreat.

And she shattered.

Fractured into a million shards of heat and light and glory.

She gasped, rode the moment—greedily absorbing all she could. But the brightness faded, leaving her dazed, yet strangely empty. Oddly expectant, as if there should be more.

Every muscle in her body felt liquefied, all tension released, yet…still she hungered.

Opening her eyes, she looked down at him. He'd lifted his head, and was watching her.

He studied her eyes, then shifted, rising like some powerful god over her.

Raising one hand, she set her palm to his chest, stroked lightly. Even through the gentle touch she could feel the steely tension coiled within him. Feeling entirely too powerful—knowing that tension was because of her, was born of desire for her—she found the strength to arch her brows. "Is that it?"

She knew perfectly well it wasn't.

From under heavy lids, his eyes met hers. He'd set her thighs wide; now he wedged his hips between. She felt the broad head of his erection seek, and find, her entrance; it hovered there, and she quivered.

Bracing his forearms on the pillows, caging her head, he bent his and found her lips—took her mouth in a slow, deep, soul-stealing kiss that once again had her wits whirling, that when he finally lifted his head left her breathless.

From a distance of mere inches, Barnaby met her gaze. "That was the prelude. This "—he thrust slowly, powerfully, and steadily, deep into her slick heat—"is the beginning of the main event."

He felt the restriction of her maidenhead, tested it, then withdrew and thrust sharply, more powerfully, breaching the barrier and riding deep into her luscious body.

Shock lanced through her; her features pinched, reflecting pain.

Inwardly cursing, he held still, jaw clenched with the effort to deny his raging impulses—his primitive side that wanted immediately to plunder and ravish unrestrained; despite having been more than ready, she was small—and he wasn't.

Head bowing, muscles bunching and flickering, his breathing harsh in his ears, he fought to give her time to adjust.

She did. In tortuous increments. As if unsure how far she should go, how far it was safe to relax. Her muscles unclenched in stages.

Gritting his teeth, he gave her as long as he could, then looked at her—met her eyes. "You're all right."

Not a question. She blinked up at him, her eyes dark, lustrous pools in the candlelight. Their expression grew briefly distant, as if she were checking the validity of his statement, then she refocused on him. And there was wonder in her eyes. "Yes. You're right." Her lips curved. The last of her panicked tension evaporated.

Tension of a different sort returned to fill the void, and called to him. To every instinct he possessed.

The sudden glow in her eyes, the subtle deepening of her sirenlike smile, the way her hand slid up to cradle his nape, the way she met his gaze—inviting, alluring, a female who sensed her worth—said she knew it, knew the effect she had on him, knew exactly what he wanted to do—and approved. Wholeheartedly.

On a groan, he surrendered to her urging and lowered his lips to hers.

And gave them both what they wanted.

He took her mouth in a soul-deep kiss, anchoring them. Then he withdrew and thrust again, whirling them into a landscape he knew well, one of sensual pleasure. He kept them there with each slow, measured thrust, every deep, forceful penetration.

As when they waltzed, she followed his lead. Her body undulated beneath his, complementing, matching, receiving, taking, giving.

The pleasure swelled, welled, swirled through them as they danced, growing ever hotter, ever more insistent, ever more intense.

He refused to rush, and wonder of wonders she didn't press him to; rather, she matched him, readily rode with him, her curiosity and delight apparent in every gasp, every encouraging murmur, every evocative touch of her fingers on his skin.

Wherever she touched, he burned, but that was nothing—no comparison to—the fiery heat of her sheath. It gripped him, drew him in; scalding and wet, she took him in and plainly gloried in the act.

Beneath him, she writhed; as the tempo inevitably increased, she clutched, nails digging in as she held tight and urged him—drove him—on.

He dragged in a shuddering breath and complied. The sensations that surrounded him, her lush body, her passion, her readily offered desire, colored his familiar landscape more brightly, more intensely, than it had ever been before.

Every movement, every touch, of his body and hers, every exchange seemed more laden with feeling. Tactile sensation, true, yet it carried something deeper, something finer—something other.

Some intangible part of them both. As if on this familiar landscape they'd somehow shifted onto some higher plane and were communing at a more elemental level.

He couldn't think about it, define it, now. His mind was too awash with whatever he was feeling. The intensity alone, the heightened sensations, battered at his mind.

He wouldn't have believed it if he'd been told—that she, an innocent no matter how well read, could so easily and completely and utterly engage with him, with his sensual side, one so very experienced—more, with the primitive passions he normally suppressed, normally kept on a tight leash so he wouldn't shock his partner.

She—patently—saw no purpose in any leash. As their passions rose higher, as locked together, arms banding, hands grasping, they rode the moment wildly, far from falling back from him, she only grew more demanding.

Until he simply surrendered, let the leashes fall, and let them both revel in his—and her—unfettered desire.

She gasped; without direction, she lifted her legs and wrapped them about his hips, and took him deeper. Urged him deeper still.

Until he felt as if he touched the very sun.

On a smothered scream, she shattered.

And took him with her, her contractions calling on his climax, her powerful, unrestrained release unchaining his, setting it—for what in that glorious instant felt like the first time in his life—totally and utterly free.

In the instant he emptied himself into her, he felt like he'd given her his soul.

Uncounted heartbeats later, he cracked open his eyes and looked down—at her, sprawled beneath him, eyes closed, features passion-blank, except for the glorious smile curving her lips.

He felt his own lips curve in similar sated delight. He withdrew and collapsed beside her, reaching for her to hold her close.

As satiation spread its soft wings about them, he prayed that if he had indeed surrendered his soul, she would agree, at some point soon, to reciprocate and surrender hers.